


Reunion

by alina_owo



Series: Original Stories [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abrupt Ending, Blood, Gen, Magic, Resurrection, Temporary Death, just a scene, lots of pronoun use, might be confusing POV, no worldbuilding, only one name and no more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26715922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alina_owo/pseuds/alina_owo
Summary: The body he is holding is deceased.She is deceased.The young, small child that is in his arms is deceased.No longer functioning.D e a d.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character
Series: Original Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944256





	Reunion

He stares down at the small, weak, fragile body in his arms that does not move, leaking of coppery, red liquid from an opening in the flesh, piercing into the insides of the gut. He touches a hand to her chest, computing the coldness of her skin and the stillness of her heart, examining the blood that leaks from her mouth and the liquid that is dried on her cheeks and the dull eyes that stare up at the sky and comes to a conclusion.

The body he is holding is deceased.

_She_ is deceased.

The _young, small child_ that is in his arms is deceased.

No longer functioning.

**D e a d.**

He hears the way that the townsfolk shuffle, brushing up against each other and feet scuffing the stone as they whisper from where they have gathered around him, forming a circle that has a 15 and a half feet radius. He hears them whisper nonsense such as _“it was an accident”_ and _“how sad, that a child has been killed”_. 

The most ridiculous he hears is _“good riddance”_. 

The only person that stands closer to him is Alina, 9 feet away from him, her sword loose in her hand as he feels her eyes stare into him as if looking for his soul. He is certain that she will find nothing; all that he feels right now is numbness, staring down at the blood that stains against his pale skin, and he thinks he should feel anger. It is the logical conclusion, the logical emotion, the logical choice, and yet he all he feels is cold.

She is cold.

He is cold.

And suddenly, he heats, burning like a stove, and he would say that he is burning like the sun, but he knows if he did he would kill the earth and the people on it. So instead, he burns like fire, burns like the warmth of love and happiness, and decides that he will use his burning to bring justice and to burn the wretched and the sinful.

An aborted _“Your Majesty-!”_ reaches his ears before the earth below him cracks like a mirror, like fragile glass, and it sinks into the ground, creating a circle that has a diameter of 16 feet, surrounding him and the monster that did this, losing his footing 5 feet in front of him. The monster seems to lose his confidence, but he does not lose the bloodstained dagger.

She is placed on the cracked dirt, surrounded by loose rocks and gravel, and he looks into the eyes that see nothing, once filled with stars and clouds now only blind to the world and its horrors. He observes as the monster regains his footing, immensely shaking as he brandishes the same dagger he used to kill her with, as if he believes that it will save him. 

As if he cannot be killed.

He continues to burn as he takes a measured step over her body, and he opens the palm of his hand to draw his powers forward, only this time it is fueled by the fire within him, burning with light and dark as it twists above his hand. The rocks _crunch_ beneath his feet, reduced to dust, making his way 6 inches by 6 inches towards the monster, who stumbles with his disgustingly functioning limbs.

His hand that cradled the cranium of her body grasps the hair on the monster’s attached head, and he looks at his own palm, covered in blood beneath the hovering orb of _burning_ and meets the eyes of the living monster. The eyes that he sees do not stare at him but at his executioner, looking all the universe _scared and afraid_ , and he pulls his arm back, ready to make sure that **he never sees again** -

“Oi!”

The sound reaches his ears, but they are not directed at him, and he wonders why everything seemed to fall away as he burned, ready for this monster to meet his maker. He turns to see why Alina had shouted not at him, but in the direction of _her_ body and he freezes, no longer burning, but freezing.

There is a hooded figure, crouched over her body, reaching out to cradle her skull and rest his hand upon her, and everything falls away. The orb of burning all but dissipates, ice flooding what he calls his body, and he barely feels his nerves as he tosses the monster away and behind him, computing nothing but the way the figure positions her body in its lap as if it has any right to touch her.

In a millisecond he stands over them, glaring at the way the figure flinches away but doesn’t move, only looking up to stare right back into his eyes. He examines the mask that covers half its face, fleshy looking skin underneath grimy, dirty brown hair and a black hood. Tears gather and fall from its eyes, one open and one closed, leaking liquid and dropping them onto her body _as if_ **_it has any right_ **-

The figure ducks its head, and he wonders if it will grovel and plead for his mercy as many of his past enemies have, hoping to gain mercy they never had in the first place, when instead it reaches up with the hand not cradling her skull, grasping its mask and pulling it down. He considers the notion that the figure is showing a sign of weakness in order to ask for his life, and he wonders how fast he can break its neck with-

...with-

**. . . w i t h -**

Everything within him stops computing and his entire system of nerves and thoughts shut down. He urges to examine the face and to add it to his memory, but he knows that he does not need to because what he looks at is his own face. It is dirty, caked with earth and dried blood, only cleaned by the tears running does his cheeks, but he sees his nose and his lip and his _eye_ because the closed one is now open and it looks exactly like one of his eyes. 

He drops to his knees as if the person in front of him is the real king and he is but a fraud, and for all he knows that could be true because the person that kneels before him looks so much like him, too much like him that he wonders where he has been all his life. He knows himself and his appearance down to the last cell, and yet when he looks at it before him, he sees all the differences and similarities.

The hair is the same shade of brown, dark enough that it looks black in the shadows but light enough that it shines bright in the sun. It’s styled in the same way, mostly swept to his left but a large portion of his bangs being put together, only with the person in front of him, it is tied together with bandages and with him it is gold that binds the hair.

Nothing beyond the man in front of him is comprehensible, and he reaches up to touch the face that is his, only now contorted into emotions that he had never comprehended or _felt_ before, examining the way that his overly pale skin tone contrasts lightly with the fleshy tone of skin, pinker around his cheekbones and nose. His flesh is sunken where his cheeks are, and the area under his eyes look dark and bruised.

He pulls the hood off from his head and sees the way the sun highlights his hair, the same but different with its grime and dirt, unruly and wild compared to his carefully styled hair. A smile pulls at the lips that look his own but are so different, cracked and bloody but pulling wider and wider until he is crying from happiness rather than sorrow.

His breath hitches when a warm hand makes contact with his shoulder, and suddenly he can feel; happiness, sorrow, anxiety, surprise, warmth, unity and more and more and **_more_ **. Everything goes blurry, and he computes the fact that tears fill his own eyes, first mortified at the action and then shocked at his feelings. He doesn’t know who owns the feelings, but he knows that he can feel them now.

Their hands find their way onto her body once again, making contact with one another as tears drip from their faces and slide onto her skin. Suddenly, the warmth drains out of him and cold seeps into his nerves, only this time he has the knowledge that _this is disappointment and sadness, a hopeless wish_ and he knows that they share the feeling because the warm hand squeezes his, but it doesn’t take away the cold.

Her eyes are closed, and he wonders if they were closed earlier when he thought that the man in front of him was not a man but a figure, but they move and suddenly he is the one frozen into place. He presses his hand down into her chest, and she coughs, heart slow but a steady beat against his palm, functioning and alive.

More tears drip down onto her body, her living body, and they both stare down in disbelief, but he can feel the way that the man accepts the new development while he feels stuck, frozen as he struggles to comprehend what is going on. He knows that he is magic, that he can use magic, but his only understanding and purpose of his magic was to destroy and damage, never to heal or soothe.

The hand around his squeezes once more, bony fingers tighter and more solid this time, warmth enveloping him as if it were a hug, warming his body and what he hopes is his soul. She is still confused, but he is preoccupied with feeling, listening to the warm and confused buzzing around him, and the-

**...tHe MoNstEr-**

Silence reigns as he stands, listening to the rapid breathing of the monster behind him, and he wishes to use the burning in him to make sure he never breathes again. He boils with something nasty, and something in him tells him that it is anger, poisonous and wretched, before he pushes it away because all that matter right now is _hurting and_ **_killing_ **-

A thin hand grasps his as he turns to face the monster, and he can feel the way the man reacts to the anger, flinching with surprise and fear, making him feel **_guilty_ ** of all things before he pulls away so that he doesn’t have to deal with those emotions, doesn’t have to feel bad about doing what he needs to do-

The same hand interrupts him again, this time accompanied by the other hand, and he pushes them off easily, focusing only on the monster in front of him before being interrupted a fourth time, not by just a hand or two but _an entire body_ , and he shoves that off as well. He doesn’t need unnecessary feelings in order to achieve his goal; all he needs is the burning inside of him and his powers, all for the sake of justice and rightness.

“Wait!”

He is stiff when he turns to the hoarse voice, sounding unused for months, looking at the image of a man sprawled on the floor, eyes staring up with a mix of emotions ( _fearsadnesspity-_ ) as if pleading for him to stop. His lips curl up in a snarl, bearing his teeth to the man but he does not flinch from the anger like earlier, instead meeting his glare head on and gritting his own teeth, as if he is _challenging_ him. 

There is a pause, and he focuses on her beating heart and his beating heart and the monster’s beating heart, everyone’s hearts pumping a pulsing rhythm in his ears that he can barely hear over his own blood, deafening in its anger and want. But out of all the hearts beating, all the fear and apprehension surrounding him, the man’s heart is a steady rhythm, betraying nothing but courage and want and _hope_. 

He does the one thing he didn’t think he could do when he first saw her dead body.

He let the monster go.

“Alina,” he barked, cutting through the silence and tension in the air, “apprehend this _man_ and take him to the prison at the castle. I will decide his **punishment** later.” She nodded, bowing respectfully to him, and it was only after she moved towards the almost-copy of him that he realized she misunderstood who he meant.

It only took a second for him to be by the man’s side once more, placing himself between his guard and the almost-copy with a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man tensed at the touch but didn’t move, and he could feel confused appreciation through the contact before his attention was stolen by the resurrected girl clinging onto his cloak. 

Alina halted, brows furrowed in confusion, but like any other time she simply took his silent order and made her way to the **monster** without a question. There was buzzing from around them as the crowd started to come out of their stupor and talk amongst themselves, but he tuned out their useless babbling and took the girl into his arms with his hand around the man’s wrist.

It would only take a moment to get back to the castle, and once they did, he knew there was a lot to talk about. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda cut it off at the end, but I did want to explicitly end it rather than just leave it at a weird note.


End file.
